


music is the language of gods

by girlsarewolves



Series: we are the dust of the earth [3]
Category: The Vampire Diaries - L. J. Smith
Genre: F/M, References to Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were days - he can remember them, little fragments scattered in the void of his history - when music was a song that soldiers danced do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	music is the language of gods

**Author's Note:**

> Because this ship needs more fic.

* * *

 

He does not care for contemporary music in Europe. It is all so painfully dull; _civilized_.  
  
There were days - he can remember them, little fragments scattered in the void of his history - when music was a song that soldiers danced do.  
  
It was appeasement to vicious, dark gods, chants to and from the cruelest parts of men’s souls.  
  
Oh, he did so love the beat of war drums.  
  
She has never heard the beat of war drums; no, his little doll was sheltered. A fragile thing not meant for war.  
  
(He changed that though - still is. Beating and breaking the fragility out of her; she looks so dainty now, dainty as ever, but her bones mend stronger.  
  
Her cruelty runs much deeper.)  
  
Their audience is silent as he plays. He reads the music in seconds; memorizes them for the moment.  
  
(Tomorrow they will be gone, and he will not remember half of the notes to the song.)  
  
His fingers mark the keys like a bloody trail of what he’s played; crimson on ivory. Beautiful colors, smearing the more he plays.  
  
He does not care for Beethoven, but she dances so prettily to ‘ _Fur Elise_ ’.  
  
“Music is how men converse with their gods,” he told her once, years ago (twenty or fifty? he cannot remember), as they sat among sheep to watch a symphony play.  
  
He has no god.  
  
She has only him.  
  
His little doll spins in circles, her hair in tangles and blood covering her face (she is not so dull these days; not so _civilized_ ).  
  
Perhaps he will give her a song of war; primal chords and tribal beats that would have terrified the fragile, proper girl she used to be.  
  
That is the music she should dance to.


End file.
